


In Paths Untrodden

by psychedelia



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beep Beep Richie, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Richie Tozier is a Mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: They survive. They heal, slowly. And in the long and winding process, Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak try to salvage what is and what could be.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how long this will be. I'm experimenting with writing small chapters and updating more frequently; it might help to keep at this. If you enjoy this and want to see more, please let me know.

In the swirling hypnosis of the Deadlights, Richie Tozier realizes, quite suddenly and all at once, that he's in love. 

Perhaps, 'remembers' is the better word, but grammar and vocabulary doesn't really matter now, does it, because it doesn't matter that Richies's in love. He knows he's dead. 

_Deader than Dane Cook's career,_ is what Richie might say, were he not floating under the thrall of Pennywise's cruelest machination yet. 

All at once, Richie realizes he's in love, because all at once, his reality is fire and brimstone and terror, horror beyond horrors, and the Deadlights show him Eddie dying, Eddie in pain, Eddie forgetting him, Richie forgetting Eddie, Eddie leaving him, Eddie being gone and shadowed from him forever, leaving a gaping exit wound where he vacates from Richies's life. 

All things, it seems, revolve around Eddie _fuckin_' Kaspbrak, and with these visions, playing in his mind over and over, swirling thoughts that move with the pulse and beat of the three ghostly orbs rising high above him, encompassing him, he realizes he's probably always been in love with him.

The Lights show him surrounded by the Losers; the Lights show the Losers dead and eviscerated in this cave, forgotten and lost and rotting, rotting, rotting. The Lights show him the Kissing bridge, R+E scrawled in wood, messily, a memory long forgotten; the Lights whisper that he won't ever get to make the Kissing bridge's name ring true. The Lights show him Eddie's smile; the Lights show him Eddie being stabbed by Henry Bowers. The Lights show him and Eddie laying in a hammock, pressed together and comfortable with one another; the Lights play back Eddie's voice telling Richie he has a wife, _a wife_, a nice a heterosexual life that will never, ever, include the likes of Trashmouth Tozier. The Lights pump juxtaposition after juxtaposition into his mind, and Hell burns all the hotter the more Richie feels himself falling into despair. 

He can distantly hear the other Losers yelling, shouting, but it's all so far away now, hard to pay attention. The visions the Lights show him, this self-made hell of self loathing and death and insecurity and loneliness feels real, feels present, feels like Home to Richie, more than the fantasy that meeting up with the Losers and having something approaching family around him once more, fighting together, strong in their bonds. How could he deserve even an inkling of an ounce of hope that they do it, they win, they make it out of here and move on with their lives? How dare he fantasize. The Deadlights croon the truth, the pain in his ear, and he feels himself slipping more under their gaze. The Deadlights whisper that this is Home, and he'll live within this misery forever, so he might as well wrap the warmth of the Lights around his mind like a blanket and lose himself entirely. 

_You'll Float eventually_, the Lights whisper, _so why struggle? If you give in, this will stop. You'll cease to be in pain. _

_You'll cease to be._

And Richie might just listen to them, might just give his mind and soul over to this, knowing he'll never come back. Knowing he'll die. Knowing Pennywise will have won, but--

What's waiting for him at the end of this tunnel? If somehow they win, what's left for him? The Deadlights show him visions of the future, misery and death and even if they don't die, Richie knows he'll lead a life of loneliness, a self-isolating cycle. 

He anticipated dying, when he answered Mike's phone call. He packed his bags and drove to fucking Derry, Maine, for a prolonged and final farewell to the world, because he knew coming here would spell death for them. At least at the end of it, he reasoned, he might get to actually rest. 

What else was there for him to do? 

And now the Lights give him an out. _There isn't pain this way,_ they tell him, whispering to him in a moment of reprieve from the flashing images of death death death to Eddie and the others, _you'll just Float. _

And he almost says yes, almost wants to weep, because it's easy, so easy to just say yes, he starts to give up what little control he's been wrestling from the Lights, and as he does so, his body inches up, up in the cavern, getting more and more weightless, and then--

Then he's slamming into the rough slimy rock on the floor and his vision clears and the vice grip around his brain relinquishes, and the fluttery memories of a panic attack start to bubble up in his chest, but he can barely even fucking breathe enough to panic, and Eddie… 

Oh, Eddie is right there, his eyes massive and worried and ecstatic, his smile crinkling so big that it threatens to break open the wound on his cheek, and for a moment, Richie thinks he's still in the Lights, that the anvil is about to drop from the sky, that he's just the Coyote falling for the Road runner's trick again. There's no way, there's no fucking possible way. 

But Eddie is speaking, and Richies's flayed and frazzled mind begs to hang onto every word, and he says, "I think I killed It, Rich," and if Richie could think, wasn't trying to pull his entire brain matter back into his vat of a skull and stay present, here (not falling away into the still-vivid worlds of the Light's visions), he'd reach up and kiss him, needing wanting aching to be close.

"Eds," He croaks, and he smiles back. If Eddie's eyes were Deadlights, he wouldn't even hesitate. He'd Float in them forever and ever and it'd be heaven. Heaven. 

Richie's in love, and It is dead, and Eddie is here, and--

There's laughter, a staticky, prickly thing coming deep in the recesses of his brain, and where he's trying to urge his muscles to cooperate and grab hold of Eddie's arm, he freezes, because the laughter is It, and It's mocking him, and It knows, knows what Richie wants, what Richie thinks, because the Deadlights touched him, It knows him, and It's alive, and if the Deadlights weren't so cruel in what they showed him, the visions and futures that it pumped into him on an endless loop (was he only in there for minutes? It felt like years, decades, entire lifetimes stuck under their thrall and their reality), perhaps Richie would hear that laughter before It killed them both with a deft strike of one of It's arms. But as it is, like a force outside of himself, his muscles spasm and move, and before he knows it, he's pushed Eddie roughly, rolling them hard several feet across the cavern, and in the same instance, the spider arm comes crashing down, angled just perfectly that it would have speared Eddie through the back if they hadn't moved. 

Eddie screeches, "What the fu-" but halts himself as he sees the arm, and scrambles up off of Richie to get up, to return to the fight, the spell broken.

He's so brave. Eddie's always been so brave. 

So courageous, and Richie slowly pushes himself to his feet and feels a conviction deep within him as he turns to look at Pennywise, hatred searing through him. 

Richie Tozier is in love with Eddie Kaspbrak and this fucking clown needs to die for ever daring to try and kill the one thing in his life that makes it all worth it. 


	2. i.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They kill It. They survive.

Reality becomes a tricky thing. No one notices, because there's too much going on, and quite frankly, Richie's the one to ignore in a time of crisis. He doesn't even blame them. 

_ Beep beep, Richie _ , It whispers in his head, and croons for him to give up, to end this long-suffering travesty. 

Reality is slippery and his mind keeps wanting to push him into the Visions, but he goes where Eddie directs him, does what Eddie tells him to, and tries to pretend his brain isn't absolute mush. 

"Oh my God, you have a concussion, Tozier," Eddie spits at him at one point, and Richie can't even bring himself to snap a one-liner back. It's the best excuse he'll have, and besides, he has no time to argue when Pennywise is coming at them all again. 

_Pardon the mess_, he thinks, _home renovations are in progress_; Richie's frazzled and no one like a frazzled narrator, but Richie's long accepted that whatever his Genre is supposed to be, it probably wasn't supposed to be  _ horror clown movie.  _

He's a fucking comedian and all he can do is try to kill some alien fuck and pretend his heart isn't aching and that his head isn't splitting open at the seams from his Visions (and maybe a little bit of a concussion; Eddie's not wrong and he did slam his head on the ground when Eddie released him from the Deadlights). 

So, sorry to say, but it's all a blur. Funny how memories of being Hate Crimed circle around his head hypnotically as they kill this thing, but he can barely remember Bill crushing It's heart, the chanting to make it smaller, It's pitiful death. 

But suddenly they're standing in a silent cavern. The  _ drip drip drip  _ of moisture falling from the ceiling, and Richies's legs feel like jelly. 

He tries to pay attention, to cut through the fog, and is met with four things. One, Eddie is staring at him in such unabashed worry that Richie can't help but reach out to him, clapping a heavy hand to his shoulder and trying not to make it seem like he's using Eddie as support. Two, Ben and Bev are holding hands, and there's a twist to Bev's furious face and a light in her eyes that Richie hasn't seen since she was a kid, since she was a Loser. Ben looks like he's in love. And Bill is holding onto Mike's arm, bracing himself, rage and anger and sadness and finality in his face as he stares down at Pennywise's final resting place. Mike looks at Bill like he's a lifeline. 

They breathe, and wonder what a novelty it is to still be breathing. In the space between their relief, there is grief, the knowledge that not everyone made it, the fear and anguish and trauma that coats all them, now, as thick as the slime from the sewers. But they made it, and they _remember, _and they cry. 

"It's over?" Richie breaks the silence, because of course he does, and then clears his throat. He tries not to sway. His head feels full to bursting, and though the Lights aren't speaking in his head anymore, it's like the after-effects at staring at strobe lights too long; his vision pulses and his head whispers half-spoken lines to him and it's oh-so-fucking-hard to pay attention. 

He squeezes Eddie's shoulder and watched him glance from Bill to Mike and then to Bev and Ben and when they nod, he says, "Yeah, it's over." 

"Okay, good," Richie says, and then promptly lets himself fall into the unconsciousness that begging to unfold him, falling heavily into Eddie's small frame, and he sleeps.

* * *

The hospital bed isn't comfortable but considering Richie is a comedian, he's spent more than a few years couch surfing in and around L.A before he could make it big, so this isn't a problem. The harsh lights of the room almost paralyze him in fear, but wakes to the sound of Eddie bitching, and it's like the sound of an angel lulling him into a Heavenly song. He relaxes and opens his eyes, slapping his hand around in the table beside him until he can find his glasses, shoving them on roughly. They hang askew and there's a crack down the middle of one of the lenses. 

He just needs to know that Eddie is here. 

"I fucking hate you, and oh good, you're awake, great, now you can listen to me, because holy fuck, Tozier, you  _ collapsed _ on me, and you know you're like, way heavier than me you massive freak of a beast, and the Doctor said you have a fucking concussion  _ like I told you _ , and-- you worried me  _ sick _ , you wouldn't get up and you know, you're not supposed to pass out that long, its a myth, you know, movie magic, and it can cause permanent brain da--"

"Is this real?" Richie's voice is sleep-thick and falls into a slur, but if he doesn't ask now, and it's not true, it's fake, just another Vision, he can't stand to sit here and listen to Eddie speak, to listen to him dote in his own peculiar way.

The older he's gotten, the rougher and harsher his consonants have become. New York did nothing for Kaspbrak but make him sound meaner, ruder, and Richie doesn't know why, but it makes him fall in love all over again. 

"Is this--" Eddie wrinkles his nose, just like when they were kids, and Richie hides the way his expression drops open by sitting up and messing with his glasses, grimacing at the goo and blood badly cleaned off of them. He'd take them off if it meant he'd be able to see Eddie even a little bit, but that's off the table. "Of course it's real, idiot. What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"...Okay," Is all Richie can muster, blinking big, and Eddie gives him a strange look, his chest deflating. Maybe he expected Richie to snap back, to fall into one of those verbal sparring matches that weren't much more than Richie just goading Eddie into speaking, into giving him attention, into him being present. But he doesn't have the energy right now. 

"Where're the others?" Richie asks after a moment goes by, two, and it's just Eddie's big concerned brown eyes staring at him like he's going to break. 

"Sleeping at Mike's. We took you here, because you-- you weren't waking up, Rich." His voice threatens to crack and Richie's attention is on it in a heartbeat. 

"... Would you believe me if I said I was jet-lagged and just needed a nap?" 

"You _ drove _ here, dipshit!"

"Maybe I rented the car in Maine. Huh? Think about that, Eds? Has the thought of car rental agencies crossed your frankly big head?" 

Eddie bristles but doesn't correct him, instead taking a step closer to the bed, jabbing a finger in his face. "Keep it up, and I'll leave you here to discharge yourself." 

Richie huffs and crosses his arms, but the movement is sloppy. If he had to describe how he feels, it'd be  _ drunk _ , and,  _ at the tail end of an anxiety attack _ , but his heart is lighter than it's been in a long, long time. 

"... It's gone," He says after Eddie goes quiet again, and there's a smile in his voice. "I can tell, you know. That It's gone for real. He was in my head, Eds, the whole time, and then Bill Last of the Mohicanssed him and he was  _ gone _ ."

Eddie is quiet for a while, his finger drumming at the foot of the hospital bed, and then he says, "It was in your head?" 

"Well, yeah. After the Deadlights and all--" Richie shrugs, and looks away from him, and pulls on a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he doesn't want to sour this moment by thinking of the Lights. He tries to sit up further, and groans when his back protests, shaky and painful. 

Eddie comes running to his side, one of his hands coming to rest on the lower lumbar and the other on his shoulder, trying to prop him up and lay him down all at the same time. "Dude! Are you kidding? Lay the fuck down." 

"No, we- I wanna get out of here." 

Eddie scoffs and rolls his eyes.. "You can't even sit up right now. You know who can sit up?  _ Babies _ . Literal infants. You're weaker than a baby right now, idiot. You--" Eddie darts a threatening finger in the air, his expression grim, when he sees Richie opening his mouth. "Do  _ not _ quote Baby Geniuses at me right now, Trashmouth." And they haven't even seen each other in years, but he knew what movie Richie was gonna bring up, and it makes him want to melt on the floor. 

His voice stutters out, "Whatever. Still wanna get out of here. Too fucking bright." 

Eddie sighs and drags a hand down his face. "Fine. I'll talk to the doctor. But if she says you're staying, you're  _ staying _ . Kapische?" 

"Loud and clear, captain," Richie grouses, and hates that he wants to ask,  _ but are you staying? _

Eddie gives him a Look, and then stalks out of the room, and Richie leans his head back against the pillow. He tries to ignore the thrum of  _ Home, home home _ that beats to the pattern of Eddie's gait.


	3. ii.

Richie is a goddamn menace when he's released. Refuses to get out of the wheelchair, demands Eddie push him, the whole nine yards of seriously childish behavior.

(Eddie complains, but it's half-assed at best, and if he's honest with himself, the 'accidental' brush of his hands over Richies's shoulder once or twice comforts himself as much as Richie.)

Eddie tongues the inside of his cheek to choke on pain, in order to avoid snapping at Richie when he lurches forward, jabbing a childish finger at a vending machine on the way out. His long frame is too tall for the hospital wheelchair, and almost makes the both of them topple over. He must jab his wound too hard, though, because he feels a blossom of blood, and still ends up choking out, "Are you fucking kidding me? Are you twelve?" His mouth tastes like copper.

"But--"

"Can it," Eddie snaps before Richie can say whatever stupid shit he wants to say, and to his surprise, he actually listens, twisting in his seat to face forward again. He rests an elbow on his armchair, resting his cheek on his hand, and goddamn, Eddie should hate this sullen behavior, the dramatics, but it reminds him of Derry, of summer vacation.

(In between the frantic fear while they pursued the clown, Eddie's head had been swimming for days, memories bubbling up to the surface of his mind with such clarity that it was a shock to his system that he hadn't remembered anything more than faint impressions of his childhood friends-- his family, really-- until he had arrived back in Derry.)

The sun had been oppressive and heavy one day, their skin sun-sweaty and the back of their necks perpetually damp even as they lounged in the grass beneath a tree. A summer day so hot that out of polite sensibilities, you don't comment on how rank your companions smelled, because likely, you smelled just as bad after an afternoon of rolling about in the dirt and splashing around fetid creeks that Richie all but pushed Eddie into.

There was no such thing as a day inside for kids in Derry in '89, unless you were Eddie Kaspbrak and your mother condemned you to a sterilized bedroom three days a week if you didn't kiss up to her enough to be allowed to play outside.

Richie, despite the heat, was up and all but dancing around them, acting out a highly dramatized but not inaccurate rendition of _Titus Andronicus_, curls tight against his forehead and his hands brushing them out of his eyes periodically.

"Oh! Why should nature build so foul a den, unless the God's delight in tragedies?" 

(Eddie couldn't tell you if it was entirely accurate, but Ben kept making small thoughtful giggles and made sure to lean over and tell Eddie that Richie was surprisingly right. He always forgot how smart Richie really was, what with that mouth of his, and Shakespeare in his vernacular was as anachronistic as it was impressive.)

Instead of telling him that, how smart he was, how impressive he was, how angelic he looked with his hair, long now in the late August weeks before he'd get it cut for the upcoming school semester, framed by the fading light like a halo, Eddie had wrinkled his nose and said, "Gross, Richie! This is so fucking disgusting and like, bloody, and we're trying to relax, not fucking vomit!"

Bill had sighed, his fingers momentarily pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked up from his book. Eddie had given him a look, and Bill just said, "N-no use trying to r-read if you two are going to scr-scream at each other."

"Flirting, more like," Bev had laughed, smoke curling up from her mouth, and Eddie wanted to attack her like a wild chimpanzee. Her hair was getting longer again, framing her face as she smirked at Eddie.

Richie had stopped his monologuing, blinking magnified eyes at them all, before turning to Eddie and flipping Bev off casually. "What's wrong with it? Seems pretty accurate to me. The blood, I mean. I mean, not all of it, but I doubt Willy here knew firsthand what this shit looks like." There had been a hitch to his voice, something that Eddie couldn't quite place. He got over it, though, giving a flourishing bow and a wave of his hand. "Unlike me, of course."

"Do you even know how fucked up that is? Richie? You sound like a freak. We shouldn't know how accurate this shit is! We're way too young! Stop normalizing it! I swear to God, you're so gross sometimes and--"

"Good thing we are freaks, dude. Anyways, where was I - oh! Yeah! The pie."

Ben had groaned, and immediately told Richie to do_ Twelth Night_ instead, which earned him a snort from Bill and a curious flush spreading up Richie's ears.

"Mike has to actually work, unlike you idiots, and I wish I could go work right now instead of have to listen to you Richie." Eddie had flopped back down on the grass.

It was an asinine, annoying, tediously common scenario wherein Richie's over the top instigations got Eddie heated, red in the face, practically screaming, and yet as the memory pushes itself forcefully thought his mind as he tries to navigate Richie to the parking lot, he realizes there's a smile tugging at his lips.

There's not a lot of good in Derry, and Eddie knows now, deep within his chest with a pain as familiar as home to him, that none of their childhoods were normal. There's something about this place that wounded them, scarred them, permanently altered them beyond all recognition.

And yet the more he remembers, memories floating lazily downwards like an inverse of Pennywise's gravity defying powers (Richie motionless and catatonic and blood floating up, up, up from his nose and Eddie wants to screech, to cry, to curl up in a ball and pretend it's not happening), he's thankful. He wouldn't give it up for anything.

If there's an evil in Derry, that made things worse, then the small bouts of happiness he was given as a child… Well, Eddie supposes he must be protective of them, a wild cat protecting its den.

He's about to say as much, to have a moment with Richie, when Richie opens his big fat mouth, and says, ".... So, um, have you called your wife yet? What was her name? Myra?"

The spell breaks, and hazy nostalgic memories of lazy summer days and camaraderie crash down like a clamp, reality asserting itself once more. The sunlight is blinding as they step out to the parking lot, and Eddie snaps his eyes shut for a second to readjust.

"Well--" He starts, and then blinks his eyes open as he realizes, realizes, oh shit, "Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh, _Christ_, Myra. Fuck. _Myra_."

"Ew. Don't need to hear your sex noises. Sorry I brought her up." Richie cranes his neck back to look at him, wrinkling his nose.

Eddie barely registers the comment, doing nothing more than flicking him in the shoulder, hard. He can't even bother to get into an argument with Richie right now; his heart is beating too fast, and he wants to fumble for his inhaler, his hand flexing and automatically jumping into his pocket before he remembers_ oh yeah_, the clown fucking spiritually ate it.

Myra will be freaking out. He hardly told her anything, not much more than a half-assed _a friend died and I need to go to my hometown._ Not that she took that well, but she understood, in the end, at least by the time Eddie was pushing past her with an armful of suitcases and telling her he'd call and explain later.

Guess he forgot. After the Jade of the Orient, after memories started bombarding him for the first time in years, crashing heavily down on his psyche and reminding him of people he hadn't thought about since he was a kid and his mom moved him to New York, after the fortune cookies and Richie, Richie, Richie, his life back in NYC had faded to the background of his mind.

And then, the clown, and almost dying, and Richie in the hospital, and he forgot-- it's been days now, and he forgot. If Myra hasn't filed a missing person's report by now, he'd be surprised beyond all belief.

And oh, how she'll yell and scream and cry when he calls, and oh how he'll pretend _he_ isn't crying himself as he hastily apologizes and--

There's a hand waving in his face, and Eddie blinks, torn from his reverie to see Richie looking at him in concern. "Earth to Spaghetti. You in there, bozo?"

"I-" The nickname startles him, and his hands slam back down on the handles of the wheelchair. "We gotta get back to Mike's. I have to call Myra."

There's a flash of… something…. Behind Richie's eyes, but Eddie doesn't have the heart to try and examine it. Instead, he hurries them to the car, and feels like he's sweating buckets. His palms are sweaty and his heart beats, and he's pretty sure he's on the verge of an anxiety attack, but, truth be told, Richie's mindless chatter helps calm him somewhat, a constant reminder that things are okay, he isn't alone, he isn't being yelled at or reprimanded and shielded from anything.

Richie has never shielded him from reality, instead trying to plunge him into it chaotically. It used to scare him. Now, with the prospect of having to explain himself to his wife _(_as he should, as he should, as he should, regardless of how she'll react, it's a cruel thing to ghost your goddamn spouse, you _fucking_ idiot, Kaspbrak), he wishes for once that he could turn to Richie and say nothing more than "hide me from this world."

Instead, Richie bitches about Eddie's upholstery and dials the radio up too high, and sings off key, and very conveniently doesn't mention how white-knuckled Eddie is on the steering wheel as he drives them back to Mike's.


	4. iii.

Everyone gives a sleep deprived  _ whoop _ of encouragement when Richie walks through the door of Mike's place, Richie holding a fist up that looks like it's a second away from falling to his side in abject exhaustion. Eddie frets over him until he can get him sitting on the couch, and valiantly doesn't rise to whatever bait Richie keeps trying to push him into. 

(And valiantly doesn't think about why or how it's so easy to fall into those patterns, why bickering with Richie feels more full of happiness than anything else in his life.)

He can't get distracted right now. 

Eddie's heart beats at a million miles an hour, and if he allows himself to stop and think, he'll have an anxiety attack, and then the Losers will wanna  _ baby  _ him, and worry over him, and he's gotta call Myra, and he just--

"I'm good, I'm good, Jesus, earth to Dr. Kaspbrak!" Richie is saying, an exhausted laugh on his lips and a twitch in his fingers, and Eddie realizes he was so lost in his own head that he had mindlessly grabbed one of Mike's throw blankets and all but tucked Richie into the couch. "I've still got  _ shoes _ on, for Christ's sake!"

"Sorry," Eddie mumbles, and steps back, hoping his face isn't a mess of red flushing, and knowing it is. He stabs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. 

Richie seems to catch on quick to the erraticism, though, if his expression softening is any indication, and let's Eddie off the hook graciously, flapping a hand as though saying  _ go, call her.  _ His expression is carefully neutral. 

The Losers are all loosely draped around Mike's couch, an intimacy and comfort in their body language that both feels as natural to Eddie as it does worry him. He's  _ not  _ that intimate with people. Ever. Not even his wife. And yet, watching Bev drape her legs over Richies's thighs and lay her head in Ben's lap, Ben idly wrapping an arm around Bill while Bill naps with  _ his  _ legs on Mike's… It feels natural. Real. Solid. Full of love, and there's a stone in the pit of Eddie's stomach knowing he'll have to leave this sooner or later. 

Half empty coffee cups from this morning are scattered about the coffee table and Eddie's fingers twitch to clean and then join the pile, to bask in this cool-down period of post-trauma and adrenaline before everything hits the fan. But he can't. 

He swallows heavily and steps back, going to the spare bedroom that they all haphazardly threw their luggage in the night before. It's a mess; by any indication, the Losers had gotten what they needed and then passed out in the living room together. 

Eddie had showered and gone to the hospital, sleeping cramped in the chair next to Richie as the man slept and slept and slept, greasy and stinking of the water in the quarry. Seeing him there, laid up in the hospital bed, Eddie had had the sudden urge to climb in with him, to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around Richie's lanky frame and just hold him, hold onto him tight, like he was bound to slip away and be lost in the night of Eddie didn't hold him near. 

Instead, Eddie had shoved his hands into his pockets and curled up uncomfortably in the chair beside him, and watched the clock tick by in half hour increments of bad sleep. 

Now, he closes the solid wood door behind him, muffling the sounds of a punch drunk Ben nervously laughing as Richie inevitably talks about his abs again, Richie's voice wavery and tired but alive, alive, alive. 

His phone is in his carry on bag; he'd tossed it in there when the incessant buzzing had gotten to be too much, a few days ago, and only now, after the adrenaline from days of clown hunting have abated, does he feel guilty. It's nearly dead, so he plugs it in, and feels the drop of a roller coaster when he reads the notifications. 

_ 29 missed calls-- Myra  _

_ 13 unread messages-- Myra  _

_ 3 Unread emails-- Myra.  _

Only his wife would fucking  _ email  _ him if he wasn't picking up the phone. He sighs, and pulls the phone to his ear without reading any of the messages, the dial tone like the heart beat of a dead man walking. 

She picks up on the third ring. 

" _ Eddie? Eddie! Are you-- you finally picked up? You've had me worried sick these past few days! Why-- what's going on? _ " 

She's furious. Her voice has this nasty, worried edge to it, and he can imagine the twist to her lips, the way her eyes are blown wide behind her glasses, the way her free hand is probably in a death vice around whatever mug of fancy organic tea she's always drinking. She'll be in the kitchen; she always is, when she's upset. 

Eddie drags a hand down his face. "Hey, Myra. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. It's been a rough few days."

_ "I'll say! What kind of husband can't answer his phone when his wife is calling? Or texting? Or emailing? Hello? Edward Kaspbrak you better have a good reason for this." _

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to even start, wants to just say,  _ Myra, I'm so scared _ , to be vulnerable or  _ anything.  _ but snaps it dutifully closed when she continues, and decides to rant at him for another three minutes, no use for his input here, no sireee.

The thing about Myra (the thing about his mother) is she goes on and on about how delicate, how fragile he is, how his heart is as big as a flowers but oh-so fragile in this big world, but the second he tries to actually he vulnerable, to open up and talk and speak from his soul and sing about his pains, she doesn't care. She really doesn't, because she's already got a million and one made up causes for why her dear,  _ sweet _ , Eddiebear could possibly be this upset right now, ignoring his actual reasons, his actual emotions. 

So he snaps his mouth shut, because even now, even after losing  _ Stan _ , and dealing with his worst nightmares and almost having to face down the fact that he and the Losers almost  _ died _ , after remembering years and years of repressed trauma and love and fear and family, she won't listen. 

_ "--meds, and you know that I know that you barely packed everything and have you been using your inhaler and, oh, I just can't believe you would do this to me, Eddiebear, I was worried sick. I haven't been sleeping or eating or anything and I just want you home where it's safe and I can hold you tight and we can talk about this…mental break or whatever it was more and--" _

"Myra." Maybe it's the fact that he stabbed Bowers and an interdimensional alien clown this week, but he's not going to entirely just roll over this time. 

_ "And don't even get me started on how annoyed I am that you took a plane, you know how filthy those things are and-- _

"Myra!" 

_ "Oh, don't raise your voice at me, Edward, you're the one whose in the wrong here and--" _

"Holy fucking shit, Myra, please, please just be quiet for two seconds and  _ listen. _ "

There's silence on the other end of the phone, and for a second, Eddie thinks she might, for once in their marriage, let him speak, and then her voice is  _ angry _ and pissed and she's saying, " _ Don't you talk to me like that, Edward, you have no right to speak to me like that after the way you've treated me-- _ " 

His chest grows tight. He doesn't even blame her for being scared, he really doesn't, but she won't  _ listen  _ to him, and he can't do this right now, so he interrupts her and snaps, "Myra. I'll talk to you when I get home. Goodbye," and then hangs ho roughly.

And then he just stands there, phone in hand, his eyes widening as he realizes, oh  _ shit _ , I hung up on my wife. 

In the wake of hanging up, he realizes there's a high keening noise coming from his throat as he stares off into the middle distance. He slides off the foot of the guest bed, the folded quilt on the end coming with him, as he drops to his knees and the weight of the last few days comes crashing down onto him like an avalanche. All at once. No mercy. 

He should feel happy; they killed the clown, and Derry is safe. No more undue deaths, no more nightmares, no more of whatever magic spell made adults in this town turn a blind eye to abuse and trauma and suffering and neglect. He's happy. He is. 

But it hurts. It all hurts so much, and what does he get out of it? What does Eddie Kaspbrak win in his quest to save lives? A miserable marriage and trauma he can never speak about and a pain so deep it runs parallel to his veins, thick and red and pressurized. 

He jabs his tongue into his cheek again and realizes he's crying, because the noise that comes out of him in pain isn't the start of a cry, but an escalation of one. Fat tears run down his face, and he slowly rocks back to let his back rest uncomfortably against the bed frame, pulling himself forward and back, staying connected to reality only by the occasional knock of his shoulder blades against wood. 

And he thinks:  _ I got the job, I got the wife, I got the house, I got the life, and I even killed the fucking nightmare clown, so why am I so fucking miserable?  _

His hands shake as they climb to hold his face, and he can do nothing for a few minutes but to let the heaving breaths take hold of him, a primordial ritual that finds its home deep within his bones, deep within his tears. 

They cried, all of them, in the cavern, in the quarry, but this is different.  _ This is pathetic,  _ he thinks. This isn't adrenaline relief and grief wrapped into one; this is a forty year old man realizing with the utmost certainty that he hates his life and what the future holds for him. The Losers can't go with him to his life. This is a bubble. A bubble of nostalgia and safety that no grown man is allowed to have, even if he loves them, even if he loves--

Eddie cuts the thought off immediately. His train of thought is distracted, anyways, by the ringing of his phone. He fumbles for it, and declines it the second he sees who it is, and then tosses it behind him on the bed so he doesn't have to look at it anymore. 

Slowly, incrementally, the crying stops. His cheeks feel red and puffy, stinging where the tears fell. He hopes he didn't ruin his bandages. 

Slowly, incrementally, he pushes all of it down, and tries to build back up those walls, to become human again, an adult, but it's harder than usual, like something has fundamentally shifted, and he just feels so,  _ so,  _ tired. 

And then there's a knock on the door and it startles Eddie so hard that his voice raises two octaves as he stutters, "W-who is it?" 

There's a pause, a loaded silence, and then, "Would a stripper be an inappropriate answer?" Another pause. "Okay, so I'm too tired to make jokes. It's Rich. You've, uh, you've been there for almost an hour, man, are you good?" 

Richie's voice is soft, and Eddie still can't get over how it's aged. The high pitched squealing of him at thirteen has nothing on the surprisingly matured voice coming through the door. And Eddie can picture him leaning his fuck-all big forehead against the wood grain, the curls slapped against his head because he still hasn't showed, his hand curled around the handle of the door, not yet twisting, but ready. It almost makes Eddie want to choke on want, but he swallows it like a fire-eater, letting that coal sit heavy and hot in his gut. 

He swallows and says thickly, "I'm fine. Don't- don't come in." 

But even before he finishes the sentence, Riche is opening the door. At least he has the grace to just slip in and close the door behind him quietly, rather than barge in loud and proud, like he would have when he was thirteen. 

So much stays the same, but the things that have changed, the ways they've grown up, are so stark and painful. So beautiful. 

Richie blinks at where Eddie's sitting and Eddie doesn't even bother to get up. The quilt is haphazardly on his shoulders, and Richie crosses the room in two long strides and slowly, hesitantly, like he's unsure, sits down beside him, a hand coming out to not too kindly push Eddie over. 

"Get your own fucking pity throne," Eddie grouses, but moves over, and pretends it doesn't feel like applying vicks to his cold-ridden heart to be so close to Richie. Richie's always run hot, and now is no exception. 

Richie shifts the quilt so it's on both of their shoulders, and he knocks his foot against Eddie. "Didn't go well, I take it?" 

Eddie looks at him for a long moment, debating, before he shakes his head. "The usual. Wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I. Hung up on her."

"Sheesh. Mrs. K never did like being ignored."

"Richard. Shut the fuck up. I'm not doing this right now," Eddie says, but even he can't help the tiny quirk of his lips. It just feels so  _ familiar _ . 

He even pretends to try and get up and move, but Richie pulls him back down, close to him, and Eddie almost playfully slaps him, but Richie  _ stops,  _ and pulls his hands back like he was burned, his eyes wide behind his cracked glasses. 

_ What if I hadn't forgotten _ ? Eddie questions, and imagines growing up with Richie. Calling him, texting him, keeping up with him after his mother pulled him to New York when he was 16 and she'd decided enough was enough for his little gang of delinquents and small town tomfoolery. What if he had gotten to see Richie when he was nineteen, twenty five, thirty? What if--

"It's weird, right?" Richie breaks his thoughts in the silence of the room, and Eddie startles, looking at him with his expression slack. "I didn't even remember you guys until four days ago. And now it's like--" he pulls on his hair, something he started doing when he was ten and nervous and increased through high school. By the time they were 16, Eddie had been worried more than a few times that he's pull his hair right out of his head. "It's like you all filled a hole I didn't know existed."

The memory is sudden, and washes over him like a wave, and before he knows it, he's holding onto Richies's wrists, pulling his hand away from his scalp. Richie blinks at him, and Eddie stutters out, "Don't want your hairline getting  _ worse _ ." 

Richie snorts, and leans his head back against the bed, letting Eddie hold him. "God. You were always funnier than me. You know that? Why the fuck am I comedian when Eddie fuckin' Kaspbrak could bring a room to its knees?" 

"I'm not funny, I'm mean. You're just a weirdo who thought I was a joking." Eddie says. 

Richie laughs, and it's deep and a little scratchy, and Eddie wonders how much Richie has smoked in his L.A lifestyle. "Maybe so. Bringing all the chucks, directly to a table of one."

They look down at where their arms are entwined, Eddie's grip on his wrists fierce, and Richies's long fingers curling slightly to touch as much of Eddie's hands as possible. And then, in tandem, they look up at each other, making eye contact, and Richies's eyes are full of tears. 

"I don't know what to do after this," he says, and Eddie takes in a deep breath. 

"Me either." It feels like another dam opening, and with it come the feelings he'd haphazardly pushed down earlier. But he doesn't fall into a pile of tears and snot and panic this time. Instead he just holds Richie by the wrists and watches him. 

Richie visibly chokes down tears, and after a long, painful silence, he says, "Um, so-- before we, uh, leave for the airport tomorrow. Um. I wanna show you something. Sound good?" 

"What is it?" Eddie asks, but Richie shakes his head and he snaps his eyes shut, and for a moment, he leans his head down and touches his forehead against their connected hands, shaking his head over and over and over. 

"Uh… Sure. Sure, Rich. Yeah." He says, because he can't say anything else, and it seems  _ important,  _ and this might, realistically be the last time in a long time they see each other, and who is he to deprive Richie of his wants? He never has before. 

Richie pulls back and watches him for a long, inscrutable moment and then slowly disentangles himself from Eddie's grasp, and Eddie feels cold as he does. "I, uh, should probably go shower for a million years." 

"You  _ are _ probably carrying a million diseases," Eddie says, and his voice sounds stronger now.  _ Taking care of Richie makes me stronger _ . "I was just being nice not to say anything." He slowly starts to stand, and Richie follows. 

Richie snorts. "Wow, that's a first. Eddie Kaspbrak shutting his big fat hypochondriac mouth." He wipes quickly at his eyes and then laughs when Eddie haphazardly shoves him. 

"Yeah, yeah, Trashmouth. Don't take up all the hot water. I'm getting in when you're done." 

They leave the bedroom together, Richie moving down the hall to where the shower is, and Eddie feels like the world isn't going to collapse in the next two hours, so he goes to rejoin the Losers, who welcome him like a lost limb. 


	5. iv.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie takes a shower.

Under the scalding spray of the shower, Richie’s thoughts wander. 

Not a terribly uncommon phenomenon, truth be told; he’s unfocused at the best of times, and a downright goldfish of memory loss at the worst. Back in his comedy club days, when he was still writing his own material and actually trying to be  _ clever _ and  _ original _ and  _ worth something _ (and himself, some last vestiges of trying to reclaim himself and his past), he’d made more than a couple jokes about the sheer hilarity of living through life with undiagnosed ADHD that had, even on many of the nights he was objectively bombing, gotten at least a few chuckles. 

_ Not too many chucks these days _ , he thinks, and lifts his face under the spray, letting the water wash down his face and push his hair off his forehead. The water numbs him; Mike’s water pressure is heavy enough for the water to hit him hard, and after a while, it’s easy to just stand there, face upturned, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open. 

They had done it. They had  _ won _ , but it didn’t really  _ feel _ like a victory. Not even close. In the living room, Bill had tried to put on a happy face, but along with the return of his memories and stutter, Richie had seen his eyes twitching, his fingers drumming against his thighs-- it reminded Richie startlingly of Bill from that summer, ‘89, when he’d constantly peer into thin air as though Georgie would just  _ manifest _ from behind the veil. A paranoid look gleamed in his eyes then and now, and though Richie knew he and the rest of the Losers would-- and  _ have,  _ thank you very much-- follow him into Hell, it wasn’t exactly a comforting display of sanity. 

Mike, Mike is happy and exhausted, but Richie could tell everything was uprooting for him; he’ll be lost the second the Losers go home to retain normalcy. Richie supposes Mike doesn’t  _ have _ a normalcy to return to. He had sprawled along every Loser he could touch, like he just wanted the reminder that they were real, here, present, a reminder that everything actually  _ happened _ . There is a loneliness imbedded into Mike’s very bones that’s as familiar to Richie as it is heartbreaking, a camaraderie in the realization that even among friends, even among family, even among those that will  _ accept _ them, it won’t ever, ever make up for the years of isolation that have rewired their brains. 

Ben and Beverly are doing the best, but even then. Even then. Ben’s soft, terrified looks whenever Beverly imperceptibly flinched away from his touches, the way he had quelled the anger, physically, in his eyes whenever he saw a new bruise on Bev’s arms, her chest, her legs. They had been a tangle in the living room, but a careful one; it’s going to take time. 

And Eddie. 

Richie closes his mouth and pulls back from the spray, using his hands to smooth back his hair and tuck the longer locks behind his ears. Whatever spell the spray of the water had him under feels like nothing more than a cruel reminder of being locked tight in paralysis by the Deadlights.

Eddie had seemed… So put together, at the restaurant. Angry and fiery and tumultuous and verbally impulsive, of course, but his life was  _ good _ . He had the job, the wife, the  _ life _ that Richie has been told his entire life he should covet, and Eddie had looked  _ healthy _ , and god, so handsome. And now, lo and behold, whatever curse has affected them all has affected him, too. Eddie, with his eyes red-rimmed and his lip all but trembling as he tried to hide crying with his hands, several of his neat-trimmed nails torn short and jagged from nervous picking. Eddie, his gaze carefully neutrally as he spoke about his wife. Even back at the restaurant, Richie had seen Bev giving Eds a worried look when he spoke of his wife, and well, if Bev was worried… 

Richie sighs, and on the exhale, it feels like he's going to fall to the ground, deflated like a red, red balloon and melt right into the bottom of the shower, washing down the drain. He holds a palm to the shower wall to stabilize himself, eyes closed and angled towards the ground. 

He breathes. 

The Deadlights had shown him future after future after future, but this one, the one he's living now, feels just as cruel as their hellish visions. 

Tomorrow, he goes home to an empty apartment with an empty life and pretends he isn't suffocating under the weight of his misery. Tomorrow, Eddie goes home to an overbearing and gaslighting wife to live a life of stress and barely-concealed rage. This is their reward for killing It.

It's not fair. 

He slowly reaches out and turns the knob, the water lessening and then shutting off, leaving him shivering like a wet dog. 

He's climbing out of the lip of the tub when he remembers that he's supposed to show Eddie the kissing bridge, and damn near collapses against the sink in a chaotic mess of plastic toiletries slamming against the porcelain. A tooth brush goes flying, and his wet hand slips on the rim of the sink and before he knows it, he's sitting on the floor, assplanted against the plush bath rug that Mike just  _ had _ to have gotten from IKEA. 

Richie breathes for a moment, collecting his bearings. His head is pounding and it's probably not a  _ great  _ idea to just fall like that after a severe concussion, and so it takes a bit for his vision to clear and stop spinning. 

In the deep recesses of his mind, the clown hisses,  _ can't even get out of the shower without thinking of your crush, Richie? Tsk, tsk _ . 

He doesn't have time to worry about the increasing occurrence of a Voice not his own, though, because the door slams open and Eddie is standing there with a kitchen knife in his hand and a panicked Bill right behind him, the rest of the Losers poking their heads around the corner to stare down the hall. 

"Uh," Richie says, like a genius, and bunches up the towel around his waist just a little tighter. 

"Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt? I heard-- I just thought--" Eddie's voice, so frantic in his panic, trails off and gets quieter as he realizes there's no immediate threat in their vicinity, and almost seems to jerk in surprise when his eyes land on the knife in his hand, like he hadn't even realized he'd grabbed it. 

Bill looks at the scene for a moment before slowly reaching out to take the knife from Eddie's hand, his gaze not leaving Richie's. "Are you-- y-you're okay? How's your h-head?" 

"Oh my God. Your concussion, you dipshit. Don't tell you me you  _ fell _ , for no  _ reason _ , and potentially just gave yourself brain damage. Do not--!" 

"I fell for no reason and potentially just gave myself--" 

"You scared me half to death Richard!" Eddie all but screeches, and Bill gives Richie a sheepish smile and starts to back away, miming opening up a pill bottle as he takes his leave to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. 

Lucky prick, able to avoid Eddie's wrath. 

"You wanna help me up instead of bitching at me? I'm not getting any younger down here." only as he's saying it does he realize he's only wearing a towel, and only as he watches the way Eddie's eyes kinda widen does he realize this might be too much. Fuck. Fuck. 

So he does what Richie's good at and he defuses the tension by being an annoying twat. "Might wanna hurry. Bowers still has time to climb out of the sink like Beverly's inappropriately cliche period metaphor still."

Yep. That does it. Eddie leans in to push his face away angrily and then clasps a hand around Richie's and hauls him up. Richie is weak in his feet and automatically grabs his shoulder, surprised for the millionth time about how solid, muscular, Eddie is. 

All the while he's saying, "I really can't believe you'd stoop  _ so low _ as to bring up  _ that _ maniac, you know, the event I'll be traumatized about forever, that whole thing and--" 

"Dude, relax. I'm a murderer now. He's dead. Your honor is preserved, my liege." He tries to half-bow and almost stumbles over again, causing Eddie to grab hold of him tighter. Richie pretends this isn't what he wants forever. To be wrapped up in Eddie's arm and protected from the world, protected from himself, for all of eternity. 

If the Deadlights wanted him to give in, to succumb, they should have just fed him fake memories of domestic bliss with Eddie Kaspbrak, and he would have eagerly leapt to his non existence like a flock of lemmings over a cliff. Or. Well, that documentary was fake and the lemmings were corralled to do that, so maybe the metaphors less applicable. Maybe he'd leap like Icarus, if Eddie were his Sun, trying to escape the life he'd be given with the one bit of brightness that it had ever contained. 

Eddie wants to yell at him more, clearly, and wow, isn't that precious, his body tenses up and almost  _ vibrates  _ with sheer raw anger when he's angry, just like when he was twelve. But Bill comes back with a bottle of Ibuprofen and a water bottle (no way were they drinking Derry tap water) and pours him out four. 

Richie swallows them dry and then pounds the water bottle, ignoring Eddie's scandalized look the whole time. "Thanks verily, sir William," He says and slaps a slightly uncoordinated hand down onto Bill's shoulder. Eddie holds him closer, like he's afraid Richie will fall. 

Eddie leads him to the spare bedroom and sits his ass down on the bed, then starts looking for Richie's suitcase. 

" You know I can handle it, right? I'm capable of clothing myself?" 

"Just sit there and don't move." Eddie furrows his eyebrows until he finds the bag-- nothing much bigger than a duffle bag, really-- and unzips it. His furrow turns to a frown, turns to disgust as he pulls out a crumpled and wrinkled short, his head whipping around to jerk it at Richie like it's evidence to a crime he committed. "Seriously? Are you seriously like this? Are you twelve? Why the fuck wouldn't you just  _ fold _ it?" 

"Oh, spare the lecture, mom. Toss it here." 

"Is it even  _ clean? _ " 

Eddie tosses it and Richie brings the fabric to his nose, sniffing it. "It's lightly worn. Doesn't smell bad, though. Well. Smells a bit like airplane booze, but only real savants like myself know the difference between airplane booze smell and regular booze smell." 

His mouth moves on its own sometimes, words tumbling and tumbling over themselves until the well runs dry. And it's a deep well, so it doesn't happen all that often. 

When they were little, Richie had always wondered what it would be like to be all corked up like Bill, the words wanting to come like an avalanche but never managing to quite reach their destination. He'd certainly offend less people if he had to speak less, though, and if the look Eddie gives him is any indication, Eddie forgot how unbearable Richie's presence can be. 

He wants to say,  _ well lucky ya didn't marry me! Don't have to deal with this sad stack for much longer!  _

He wants to say,  _ I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,  _ for so long the words stop to sound like real words anymore and just being garbled nonsense. 

Most of all, he wants to say,  _ I'm sorry I love you still.  _

But he doesn't, and it takes a lot of consideration for Richie Tozier to not say something, and so, it seems, his mouth is taking things into its own hands and just spitting out rambles that would scare even the most extroverted extrovert away. 

Another bundle of cloth being thrown at and he's jerked from his thoughts. A different shirt and sleep pants that definitely aren't his own. 

" Eds?" His heart pounds. 

"You just showered after days of sewer stink. I'm not letting you out in dirty clothes. I don't think Mike will mind; it's just a shirt and some pants."

Richie blinks and thumbs the fabric-- soft cotton-- and pretends his mind didn't concoct a different scenario just a moment before about the origin of these clothes. 

He says, "Oh, wow, setting me up with Mike now, are we? Tricksy, Tricksy, Eddie-Spaghetti." 

"Put those on and then come to the living room. You're not sleeping for at least a few hours, dipshit." His voice sounds strangely strained. 

Richie shrugs the shirt on over his head, pulling his glasses back on once he does so, and when he can see again, Eddie has backed out of the room and the door shuts behind him. 

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gets dressed, his movements slow and deliberate and his mind a quaking mess of shaking earthquakes and dizzying plane jumps. 

Too much. It's all too much. He feels like he's twelve and full of so much pent-up energy it's going to cause volcanic ash to spread across the earth the moment it erupts. 

He finishes getting dressed and looks at himself in the mirror of the dresser, and sees a washed out mess of a man who forgot the will to live a long, long time ago. His eyes look blown, crazy, frazzled, his hair is a failing mess,his hands shake and tap against his thighs like a coke binge gone on for far, far too long. 

There's dark circles under his magnified eyes, and his skin has definitely seen healthier days, even under the fading bruises that still longer like a backslash across his body. His fingers are tobacco-stained and his nails are jagged and short, the skin around the cuticles bitten and peeled in nervous ticks. It's a wonder nothing got infected down below Neibolt. 

But most of all, beyond all that, he sees nothing. It's always been hard to see himself as anything more than a piece in the puzzle. Not a fully fleshed creation on his own. And the last few days, everything slotted into place and he had a  _ purpose _ again, a measure by which to judge himself and now, now it's gone again. 

They're going home tomorrow. 

_ Aw, you really missed me, Richie,  _ the Clown Voice whispers to him, and Richie can't even deny it. At least he can remember why he's always felt so pathetic his whole life now. 

He's not Beverly, strong willed and fiery. He's not Ben, studious and kind. He's not Bill, a natural leader with a moral compass so rigid it's always pointing to Sirius the dog-star, he's not Mike whose heart is valiant enough to tread into the realm of magic and mayhem, he's not Stanley,  _ oh Stan _ , who always kept them from getting too fanciful, too caught up in the fantasies of things. And he's certainly not Eddie Kaspbrak, so, so brave and righteous his very existence feels like a callback to Greek demigods. 

He's just Richie Tozier, who exists to point at himself and say,  _ see? At least you're not me! Wouldn't that be a laugh and a half!  _

So he laughs, and laughs some more, and when that's not enough, he runs his fingers through his hair and  _ pulls _ , and he laughs some more until his eyes well up with tears and his chest feels tight and his head feels woozy, and he has to sit back on the bed to quell the nausea that lives inside him like a parasite. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Calamus poems by Walt Whitman. These are a collection of poems that celebrate and ponder on Whitman's gay relationships, and it leeks such a deep set loneliness in its intimacy. It heavily reminds me of the way I say Richie Tozier. Here;
> 
> IN paths untrodden,  
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,  
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,  
From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,  
profits, conformities,  
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,  
Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that my  
soul,  
That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,  
Here by myself away from the clank of the world,  
Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,  
No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as I  
would not dare elsewhere,)  
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains  
all the rest,  
Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,  
Projecting them along that substantial life,  
Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,  
Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,  
I proceed for all who are or have been young men,  
To tell the secret of my nights and days,  
To celebrate the need of comrades.
> 
> I am on [Tumblr ](https://sekwoja.tumblr.com).


End file.
